


Of Screams Untold

by PrincessMidnaofTwilight



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Spoilers, Post-Time Skip, and how he starts to heal slowly, bc boy howdy does he break my heart, does dimitri ever do you a big hurt, gesticulates vaguely @ dimi, how i like to think byleth might have felt, in the aftermath of waking up to him like, meme voice its abt the mutual pining, this is just
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-09-23 22:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20347819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessMidnaofTwilight/pseuds/PrincessMidnaofTwilight
Summary: I read another fic and got to thinking (never a good sign) about how Byleth might have felt after seeing post-timeskip Dimitri for the first time. I feel like being asleep for five years would do a number on her too, even if the feelings were a little different. Just a little drabble, enjoy!You ever just start on a thing and can't really stop thinking about it? This is that fic LOL I plan to keep updating the more ideas I get, I just like exploring all the little moments in-between his healing, the grittier and sadder things





	1. Chapter 1

The whistle and clatter of slices could be heard from several feet beyond the training grounds, each stroke of her sword violent. Ever since her strength had returned--a hearty meal and a few nights of sleep did wonders--all she could think about was her failure.

_ Slam. _Her failure to stop the war.

_ Slam. _Her failure to protect the monastery.

_ Slam. _And most importantly, her failure to protect her students.

A single, deranged eye burned in her memory--icy fire consuming any attempt at optimism. 

_ Smash! _The training sword snapped in half and she growled in frustration, tossing it aside and reaching for another. She wouldn't be able to focus on their next step forward if she was so furious she couldn't see straight. 

"And here I thought the boar might have regained some of his good sense," Felix swaggered into the room. "Only to find the Ashen Demon, instead. Up for a few rounds?"

She sighed, cracking her knuckles. She was in no state for sparring. This was pure venting, every inch of her body screaming for an impossible fight. She couldn’t undo her attempt to help Rhea during the battle; the way her body had moved before she could think better of it. She couldn’t...couldn’t undo the fact that she hadn’t been there when they strung Dimitri up like a puppet in prison, waiting to have his strings cut as the Imperial Forces crushed Fhirdiad and--given Gilbert’s accounts--half of the kingdom. She had no idea what they’d done to him, or how he’d escaped, but if his gaunt belligerence was anything to go by…

She swallowed hard. Where tears were once impossible, they now burned readily behind her eyes. She gritted her teeth, wiping her face with a towel as she turned to the exit. She was still their teacher, she was still the adult here. And she, least of all, deserved to mourn what was lost.

"Go ahead, Felix, I was just about to head out anyway."

"Wait, professor--you don't have to go." Something in his voice made her turn around. Was that...concern? From the heir to Fraldarius himself? She couldn't be sure, but she'd failed them enough for five years. She took a deep breath. 

"Is something wrong, Felix?" 

"I think that's what I should be asking you," Grave and steady as ever, teak eyes regarded her shrewdly. "Five years is a long time to fall asleep."

“Well, we all knew I was never ordinary. I’m fine; right as rain, far as I can tell.”

A harsh chuckle slipped past his lips. “Then you shouldn’t have a problem facing me.”

Pursing her lips, she offered him a peek of what she was truly feeling, ancient power setting her blood aflame every single time despair threatened to find her. “I only just found you all again, Felix. And now I have a war to fight. I have no intention of crippling one of our best swordsmen.” She tried to take a calming breath, unsuccessfully she imagined, given the widening of his eyes. For the first time he looked well and truly wary. “Next time.”

“Fine.” He grated his agreement. “But just so you know, none of us blame you for disappearing that day. We believe you,” She heard the distinct sound of stretching from behind her, and the rattle as he kicked aside the broken swords. “And I know the boar does, too. Even if he won’t say it; he wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”

She closed the door behind her before she could hear another word, working not to slump against it. Somewhere deep in her heart she’d known all that. But he was missing the point.

She hadn’t--and couldn’t--forgive herself.

But she also didn’t have time to grieve--not if she was going to reclaim everything they’d lost. Mind racing, she made a beeline for the baths and the library, fully intending on reading the better part of the night away. There had to be sources--accounts--from wars with such calamitous odds; she would do her utmost to learn everything she could from them. Tactics, sacrifices, maneuvers. She’d already spent too much time asleep.

From afar a hulking figure brooded against the side of the building; he’d overheard most of the conversation. Fists clenched around his arms where they were folded against his chest, he was frowning heavily. The voices were still ringing, but the screams of the professor seemed to overtake them. Was she truly here, and not a specter? Then how could he hear it--her voice, so clearly--begging for the rending of flesh? For the shatter of skulls, the tear of skin under sharpened silver? He wasn’t sure, but the conundrum was enough to distract him. She was like him. And something about that was enough to pique his interest.

For the better part of his days, he would be found staring listlessly in the cathedral--muttering to voices only he could hear. No amount of persuading or tentative approaches would make him budge. The most anyone had seen was a glimpse of him lifting an orphan to rest about his shoulders. Alarm had spread through the church staff but he was perfectly still, murmuring quietly and pointing to the shards of stained glass glittering from afar; the only remnants of the monastery’s holy grandeur. But in the evenings he could be found, a looming shadow, wherever Byleth was. Whether penning correspondence, preparing battle briefings, or researching late into the night; he could be found without fail leaning against some dark corner in close proximity.

The first, and perhaps only one to notice, was Gilbert during a late meeting about their next move. That evening--when asked whether he was under the weather, voice hoarse--he assured Byleth that it was merely the weak constitution of a knight much too old for his service.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being productive instead of thinking about Dimitri? Don't know h e r. This is just a sort of continuation of the last chapter, more of Dimitri's baby steps to good boy hours. Enjoy!

“Spar with me.”

The words were terse and final, not remotely a question. It was an order. Not for the first time the surreal nature of his transformation hit her as surely as a ton of granite might, rocking on her heels. The visage of the boy with a similar voice struck her all of a sudden, all polish and groomed decorum:  _ “Welcome, professor, care to spar with me?” _

Their faces overlapped, worlds apart. Five years. Just five years. 

She wracked her brain for the correct answer here. It was true she was avoiding most of her students on the training grounds because she was still letting off steam, but he was also in a very fragile state given the circumstances. If she denied him this, would it just be another hindrance to his recovery? 

Decision made, she took up a training sword as he took up a training lance instead of his usual silver one. That was a good sign, relief making her relax into position. At least he didn’t seem to be trying to kill her, or ranting those awful things he usually did in battle. It was a little odd, but he actually seemed...solemn, rather than seething for once. She couldn’t detect hostility so much as an evaluative curiosity.

She hoped this would be a step in the right direction. 

He was the first to lunge, lance swinging down at an incredible speed as she met him easily--knocking it back with the force of her blow. His eye widened a smidge before crazed delight made him smile all too wide, the crack of their weapons meeting as sure and steady as a pulse. She was a little surprised to find that he met her new strength without so much as a tremor, throwing her off in multiple stalemates. Bruises were sure to form where blades glanced their armor, but it was...soothing in the oddest way.

There was something comforting about trusting another person to face you as an equal in combat, someone that could show you how to get stronger--someone you could learn from as much as look after. It was hours of this--with Dimitri, with Felix, with  _ everyone  _ that taught her how to protect them. It taught her that Dimitri always left his left leg open, that he was always a little too rigid to flow with his blade properly--making his body do more work than it needed to. It taught her that Felix was always a little too reckless, moving so fluidly with his that he exhausted himself quickly. It taught her that Ingrid had a hard time holding true to her aim, hesitating just before landing a blow--enough for enemies to read her movements.

She was impressed to find that he moved more easily with his blade now--as though the hesitation and fear had been siphoned out of him. But that loss of caution also resulted in riskier maneuvers; he was defending himself less and less with each swipe of his lance. Kicking into teaching mode, she moved in ways that forced him to use the blocks she’d long since taught him. Her lips twitched at the sight of him falling back into those habits, body moving into the practiced shifts and slides that would protect him when she couldn’t.

She’d made the right decision. 

Five years, and they’d both lost so much. Five years, filled with anguish and loss. And yet, even so, they had this. They could still face each other--face it all--together. Even if he was broken, even if he couldn’t think about anything beyond slicing off Edelgard’s head, he was here. He was alive. And alive meant every potential to heal. She wouldn’t stop trying, even if this was what life was to look like until the end of her days. 

She’d made them a promise. And this time, she would keep it; she wasn’t leaving them again.

Resolve surged and she managed to land a hit so hard he stumbled back a few steps, mouth taut with displeasure. She didn’t need him to say it to understand that their practice session was over, body aching and breath coming fast. He swept up his cloak back onto his shoulders, about to leave when she called out without thinking. 

“Wait!” He halted in his steps, bristling. Like the raised hackles of a cat, every inch of him was tensed. 

He rounded on her with menace until he noticed her hands glowing, low chanting signaling healing magic. “I know you don’t like being touched, but I can mend them from afar. Just hold still for a second.”

She was surprised that he complied without another word, lingering long enough for the white light to shine through the cracks of his armor. The moment she was finished he stalked away, and she listened as his footsteps faded into the distance. Exhausted, she finally let herself plunk down where she was, resting her head against her knees. Sure he was still barely sociable, but at least he wasn’t raving at things she couldn’t see--or bellowing at her to stay away. Progress was progress, she supposed.

“Professor?” A gentle voice--rare at the training grounds--came from the entrance.

Her brow furrowed in confusion as she glanced behind her. What would bring Mercedes from the cathedral all the way out here? “Mercedes? Were you looking for me?”

“I was on my way to my old dorm room when I passed Dimitri on the way there. I greeted him, and he stopped to point rather insistently at the training grounds. When I asked him why, he didn’t explain; he just kept walking towards the cathedral. Was somebody here looking for me?”

They both looked to each other, utterly baffled at the silent directive until Mercedes hurried over.

“Oh, professor! You’ve got some bruises, and you’re bleeding! Let me help,” her low chanting was already echoing about the room.

“Er, thank you Mercedes, I owe you one.” She hadn’t even noticed--but she had a feeling someone else had.

Just as the realization hit her she found the same truth dawning in eyes the color of a cloudless summer sky, glittering with unshed tears. “Think nothing of it, professor.”


	3. Chapter 3

This battle would be a grueling one.

Left and right soldiers were swarming like a thousand angry insects, loaded with armor and cinching in on their little party with increasing vehemence. The archers had long since retreated to grant aid in any form they could, replacing the multitude of lances Dimitri had already shattered in reducing the enemy forces. Those that didn’t lose their lives took one look at his menacing glee and paled, many running for their lives. Whether or not they managed to escape his clutches all depended on Byleth’s ability to re-center his focus on the oncoming waves.

It was one such falter that nearly cost the prince his life. 

While one soldier was trembling, another had an axe ready to cleave Dimitri clean in two. “Quit your snivelling. I’m only sending you you to the Eternal Flames where you belong.”

“Dimitri, look out!” She lashed out with her Creator Sword, felling the enemy soldier in seconds with another flick of her wrist. But in the next second a searing pain ran across her side, and she looked down to see vivid red above her hip. Seiros.

“Mercedes!” The word was a roar, everyone--allies and enemies alike--jumped at the violence lurking in three mere syllables. 

“Don’t startle her like that, I’m sure she has soldiers that need more tending to than I do--”

“I haven’t given you leave to die.”

She was silenced by the way he loomed over her, mouth taut, fixed in a dark glower. Something about the gesture seemed...oddly familiar; as though she’d seen it before. She could almost envision the remnants of a creasing brow, lips pursed--a hand warm along her arm as he insisted on examining her wound more closely. No matter how small, he’d dragged her to a healer nigh every time she received so much as a scratch on the battlefield. Sylvain was always the first to insist he was exaggerating, but the young man would hear none of his ribbing.

Breathless, Mercedes arrived with her clothes already darkened by soil and blood that wasn’t her own. She was jolted back into the clang of metal and the overlapping cries that signalled the heat of battle when Mercedes placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

“Leave it to me, professor; try to relax.”

\-------

"Never do anything so foolish again." Upon their return to the monastery, the grim order rattled like a thousand needles in the high walls just beyond the market. She often lingered to see everybody off and check on their condition, and Dimitri for whatever reason had begun to do the same. Just weeks before, he would always be the first to stalk off--enormous cape dark with blood and grime, an ominous harbinger from afar.

This time she couldn't help the anger that burned the tips of her fingers, made them clench around her sword. He was one to talk! Despair gave way to frustration, remembering how he always left himself open instead of relying on everyone. The only reason he was still alive was his uncanny strength and a bit of luck--but if he kept inviting disaster like this…

"Then stop putting yourself at risk! Stop charging in without thinking!"

"That isn't for you to decide. All I want is that woman's head hanging off the gates of Enbarr. Whatever it takes."

Her lips twitched at his gloomy petulance before she sighed. It was her fault for expecting things to change so fast. She kept seeing vestiges of a young man that simply didn't exist any longer. She was just setting herself up for disappointment. 

"Fine."

His head snapped up at the defeat in her tone, and for once he didn't grin maniacally about it. She refused to call it regret though, she wouldn't do that to either of them anymore. Gritting her teeth, she stalked away from the monastery, letting the cool weight of the night air settle in her lungs. 

She needed sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

What was perhaps the most heartening development of the week was an end to his ramblings. Much of the church staff reported that he was silent, no self-directed ravings or growling at them if they got too close. 

Byleth, on the other hand, was worried.

Silence was a relief to some, but she and Felix knew better. He had cast her a knowing glance from across the training grounds, and she nodded--agreeing to check on him. Silence meant they had no idea what might be going on in his head; and that could prove dangerous.

She made her way to the monastery, fully expecting that she might encounter calamity, only to find a giggling gaggle at the apex of the ruins. The staff that wasn't keeping careful watch lingered in the entryway, confusion clear on their faces.

"Is something the matter?"

Stoic and light-footed, she startled the young monk. "Oh, professor! Er, I suppose not?"

When Byleth arched a brow, he hurried to explain. "Well, we brought a number of orphans with us to pray today, given restoration efforts and the fact that this is one of the safest places in all of Fodlan now." He glanced ahead once again, spellbound. "And they just took to him immediately."

They what?

Following his gaze, she pushed through to find Dimitri at his usual spot in the monastery. But rather than standing--staring listlessly--he was resting against part of the rubble, his cape draped across the floor. Several cats--one she recognized from other parts of the monastery, affectionately named Socks by Alois because of her white paws--was curled up just over the lion’s emblem. Alongside her was a tabby known for wandering the pier, and still another calico that often rubbed against her leg each morning she descended the stairs to the greenhouse. So many were strewn about his cape, napping, while the orphan children whispered with awe. She could see his lips moving but she couldn’t hear his voice, too soft to make out what he might be saying.

Was she losing her mind, to be so envious of a bunch of little felines?

Whatever he said the children tittered and the cats’ ears twitched, but they made no move to rise from their lazy perches. One child leaned in close to whisper in his ear and he smiled, offering a few words and what could only be known as a gentle pat on the head. His eye narrowed as the rest all clamored for the same and he obliged each one, laughter trailing as they returned to their flustered chaperone. And for a moment she could almost imagine him the king he had always intended to be; standing tall in his audience chambers in vivid regalia, looking a little stiff in the finery but no less warm in his earnest welcome.

Was it odd to wish so desperately for someone else? She couldn’t remember wanting anything as much as she wanted to see this Dimitri again, soft at the edges for all his suffering. The one that still knew how to make children giggle and cats purr.

Maybe she was just being selfish. Maybe she just wanted the Dimitri she could recognize because it reminded her of those happiest memories that seemed like days ago, so close to her heart that the thought of their dissolution set it aflame. Maybe she was forcing something that he simply couldn’t manage. Would he hate her for it? Could she risk that? Her eyes lingered on him, unfazed by the group moving around her--gawking, muttering apologies, tugging at her jacket. As if he could feel her eyes on him, his eye met hers and the pensive look faded, gloom shrouding his features as though she’d only glimpsed the eye of a hurricane. A momentary settling, a brief and tentative calm--easily shattered by a hopeful glance.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today on: I have a unending need to love and look after Dimitri and that was the one thing I couldn't do all the time in game

Madness could often be defined as engaging in a fruitless activity over and over and over again and expecting a different outcome with each attempt.

She’d decided that mad professor was a preferable title, if he was to be titled the mad king.

One evening, as she was helping Ashe collect the wash, she had the bright idea of including Dimitri in the rounds. Granted, everyone in the Blue Lions had made the attempt to persuade him in the beginning--but he’d snapped at each one. To an extent, everyone had sobered at his reaction, the distrust that would fill his answering sneer. They stopped asking. In that first year she’d been gone, he’d lost every conceivable thing he’d ever called his own: his freedom, his throne, his home, and quite nearly his life if not his mind. She wasn’t expecting him to trust any of them with what little he’d managed to cling to, though she was glad to see him disappearing to the river now and again. 

It made her begin to wonder just how he’d gotten a hold of his cape--not remotely subtle in its homage to the Faerghus royal line. Had he managed to make it back to the castle before disaster struck? How long had he been able to dream of change, of retaliating before the ground was upended beneath his feet? The image of him, head bowed, arms restrained--though for a moment she couldn’t imagine how unless he was magically rendered unconscious--made her shake her head. Given his unnatural strength, just what kind of bars could hold him, if any? How many people did it require and how many times was he forcibly subdued? 

She shook her head, trying to dispel the thoughts. There was no use dwelling on what she couldn’t change, even if it curled like acid in her chest--every breath harder than the last.

Ashe nodded and left for the students’ quarters while she dredged up courage as she walked to the cathedral, preparing herself to be denied. She’d noticed that the one thing he never bothered to look after was his cape. She couldn’t be sure as to why, but she had a sneaking suspicion it was a result of all that he’d left behind. A reminder that he and his kingdom--much like it--was in tatters; something he could not wear proudly until he’d restored the justice of his loved ones.

If that was the case, she wanted to look after it. 

Again he stood like a man possessed, staring at the light that filtered in from the stained glass above. It was early in the morning, but given the mauve shadows that distinguished his pale eye like a shock of ice in a cavern, she wasn’t all that surprised. He seemed a little more fidgety than usual, and she was reminded of the days he would clasp his hands behind his back--decorous the way only a child raised as a royal could be--whenever she noticed him playing with his fingers, or his tassels, or a loose button on his uniform. Now, his arms were crossed over his chest and he spotted her out of the corner of his eye, but he said nothing as was his new habit.

“We were just collecting the laundry for the day,” she murmured softly, feeling stupid but deciding it was much too late to back out now. “I’m sure you’d prefer to do it yourself, but I can look after your cape if you want. The last battle was...” she swallowed, remembering their disagreement. “Was a lot.”

She let the words hang and for a long moment, he didn’t move. Figuring that was his denial, she was seconds from stepping away to rejoin Ashe when a heavy thud reverberated, loud in the silence of dawn. 

As soon as she’d turned back it was as though he'd never moved in the first place, and he didn’t look back at her. His cape was a pool of discolored fabric on the floor, near black in places from the bloodstains. But it was still undoubtedly his. It was a little odd to see him without it--and for a moment she could almost see how apt a disguise the cape was, though perhaps not in the way one might think. Because when he took it off he was coated head to toe in black armor, but he was still lanky and still a little uncomfortable with the amount of space he consumed; any illusion of the unruffled, stalwart obsessor waning. It reminded her of the days she’d spent when she was little running around in her father’s coats, practicing her technique while he was out fighting.

The thought of them having something in common made her relax.

“Thank you,” her voice was just as quiet as before, stifling the triumph of this little victory. “I’ll bring it right back.”

When she met Ashe at the entry point to the forest he took in the bundle in her arms with awe, before he shook his head and beamed.

“You’re a miracle worker, professor.”

“I don’t know about that, Ashe.”

They set to their destination in amiable silence, occasionally chatting to recall some past nostalgia. Like that time she’d sent out Ingrid and Sylvain to take care of the house’s laundry and he’d returned with a welt on his head, Ingrid fuming that he'd had panties in his pocket. He later explained that he found them serendipitously on his way to collecting everyone’s clothes, but she refused to hear any of it. Dimitri had lanced him with a frown heavy with disapproval, sighing as he apologized to her as their professor about Sylvain’s self-control--or lack thereof. She wasn’t sure what the punishment had been, but Sylvain would be groaning for weeks about muscle fatigue every time training would commence. The thought made her smile, and Ashe noticed as soon as they settled down and got to work. 

“Something on your mind professor?”

“No, I was just remembering that time Ingrid caught Sylvain sneaking panties.”

Five years and the man before her was every bit the bashful young boy she first met, blush reaching his neck. “Er, right,” He laughed the nervous, breathy laughter that she’d come to identify with his discomfort. “I can’t imagine just what you thought of us, only a week after becoming our professor.”

She shrugged, scrubbing alongside him. “Mercenaries have their share of vulgarity.”

Slowly but surely they made quick work of the pile--in no small part due to Ashe’s steady cheer--the sun having shifted past its highest point into the afternoon. She only noticed after the fact that Ashe had placed fewer clothes in her pile so that she might take her time with Dimitri’s cloak. She shot him a grateful look and he just smiled. She had to remember to get him some of that candy he loved to buy when he was young, or find some other way to repay him--perhaps the latest chivalric tale if she encountered one in their travels.

She set to work on the cloak first thing, removing her extra supply of soap and the white vinegar she’d borrowed from the kitchen in her bag. Mercedes had advised the latter to expedite the process, knowing that the garment hadn’t seen a proper scrub in a long time. Soaking it first, she kneaded at the thick wool and picked out all the debris she couldn’t shake out. 

Then she started to work, pouring vinegar over the blackened smudges and wiping it out in slow circles--sighing with relief as the original color emerged. She wasn’t sure how well it would work given the time, but the longer she persisted the more she could see the marks dissipate. She ran her hand through the fur at the top to loosen the tangles, wishing she could do the very same when he was wearing it. The huge garment just seemed so cozy, she wasn't surprised cats meandered their way into nestling atop it whenever he rested.

She did a double take at the soap when she realized she’d brought the wrong bottle with her, wincing a bit. She’d bought a neutral scent, one reminiscent of pine that she’d hoped might bring him calm--or at the very least not be overwhelming to the senses. Rather it was her extra bottle of body wash, a specific kind she was gifted for saving a young nun in a mountaintop monastery years ago. Known for her remarkable concoctions, she insisted that Byleth choose among the scents she made and have her supply replenished free of charge monthly--wherever she might be. Byleth often sent her funds regardless, and they continued to exchange letters whenever time permitted. She was the first friend Byleth had ever made before the monastery, one of the few people she remembered with warmth.

Shrugging, she hoped it wouldn’t trouble him too much--_if _ he even realized it was what she wore too. Rubbing smooth circles of foam into every inch of the fabric, she hummed contentedly as the unique aroma hovered in the air. Amber with distinct notes of sweet vanilla, tart rhubarb, and a pinch of patchouli to ground the fragrance--just a dash of it; enough to remind her of petrichor and fog after a thrilling storm. Often she would linger to gaze about the monastery after a particularly tempestuous night, half-shrouded in mist and glistening in the early light like the first pages of a storybook. 

Suds covered her hands as she carefully rinsed out the soap, reveling in the way the scent of violets hovered; nigh undetectable but vivid if one knew to pay attention, a subdued mingling with the vanilla. She sighed contentedly, relaxing as she submerged it a few more times before wringing it out, hanging it up to dry with the rest in the sun.

Ashe offered her part of what they’d packed for lunch the day before, mostly fruits and some freshly baked bread given the heat. As they waited for things to dry, she noticed him staring at Dimitri’s cape.

“Do you think he’ll come back to us, one day?”

She took in the beautiful shade of blue, gold with the sun and looking as though it had been dyed anew after a thorough wash. It was the same color she had always learned to identify with the Blue Lions; bright but deep all the same, rich and beautiful. Like the brooch resting just above her heart. 

“Yes...I think so.”


	6. Chapter 6

She folded the cloak into neat corners, running her fingers over the fresh garment. Inhaling slowly, she dredged up the courage she’d no doubt need to return it to him. Ashe waited patiently for her and she shouldered the last two bags--keeping the blue bundle in her arms. Maybe it was selfish, but she wanted to keep it as it was, with the traces of her touch. If he wouldn’t let her comfort him as he was, then maybe this could serve in her place. 

This way, she could always watch his back.

Ashe beamed as she fell into step beside him, and they made it back to the monastery just before sunset--evading any monstrous beasts. Nobody entered the forests surrounding the monastery alone, the mountains infested with the vestiges of Edelgard’s war. In the years before she had awoken, Seteth told her of their efforts to protect the nearby villages to the best of their abilities. 

As they were about to part ways, Byleth hesitated in her steps toward the monastery. She worried her lip, uneasy about his potential reaction. Would she trigger something even worse in him, would the scents only bring awful memories? Would he hate the reminder of her presence, after all the years she’d left him to fight alone? Her hands began to shake, until a warm hand found her shoulder. Ashe was smiling in that gentle, sympathetic way only he knew how--a world’s worth of understanding in eyes the same color as her own. 

“Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll love it. If anybody can help him, professor, I know it’s you.”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself. Standing on the sidelines and doing nothing at all wouldn’t do them much good either, now would it? She squeezed his hand gratefully and offered him a little smile, to which he nodded--accepting it for the resolve that it echoed. Every step felt heavy with purpose, her greetings to the others a bit distracted as she hugged the garment to her chest. 

It was a little strange, if she was honest. She’d always thought Dimitri would be the last person she’d ever hesitate to approach; the last person from whom to expect a rebuff or cold shoulder. From the very beginning he’d been more than willing to meet her halfway after agreeing to teach them, bright and eager most days she would encounter him on campus. She’d fully been expecting wariness when she took up her position as their professor; the same wariness that would adorn villagers and nobles alike on her missions. She could still remember the whispers, resounding as surely as a chorus did in the monastery--impossibly amplified.

_ “I don’t think I’ve seen that kid of his smile once, think it was a good idea to drag a kid around with us?” _

_ “She was staring at him, just bleeding out, not moving. Who’s to say she won’t be looking for our blood to spill next?” _

_ “Can she even talk? Or is that just a bonus along with those dead fish eyes?” _

_ “Think she’s some kind of demon? I mean look at her, she doesn’t move for hours at a time--does the Boss even know what she’s thinking?” _

_ “Are you sure we can entrust such a delicate task with someone...of her caliber.” _

_ “Hopefully the old coot’ll finally kick the bucket, and we can drop her off in the nearest town.” _

She’d never quite understand how easily the Blue Lions had accepted her into the fold. No matter their doubts, they’d all been so kind to her--doing their best to welcome her. Dimitri had been particularly concerned, asking if something was the matter from the second week--though she hadn’t really been able to explain it all that coherently at that point. Even so he didn’t assume deceit, didn’t avoid her eyes or grow frustrated when her reaction didn’t align quite right. Despite everything he’d even seemed enthusiastic at points, as though the tragedy--for even the slightest moment--no longer haunted him.

Was it any wonder she’d…

The heavy creak--she’d need to ask Sylvain and Felix to help her repair the mechanism--of the gates rising for second mass startled her back into focus. She nodded to the gatekeeper and several holy workers around the monastery, trailing unhurried toward him, giving him ample time to register her proximity. Clad in black, it was still strange to see him without his cloak--the finer outline of his body coming into view. Her brows came together to see him so thin--he’d always been lithe, but this was closer to emaciation. Was he eating at all? She’d instructed the dining hall to leave food out for him, whatever they could spare, as their personal attempts had all failed. 

She still remembered the last time Felix had tried. He’d returned, reporting what’d happened, angry and terse. But she’d been able to hear how close his voice was to breaking, how he wouldn’t look at her--told her from afar, back turned, his head turned only enough to meet her gaze. Riddled by the truth herself, she’d taken a few steps to reach out and squeeze his hand, and she could feel it tremble. He didn’t say anything when she did, just took a harsh breath and stood alongside her before stalking away.

She wasn’t sure how much more all of them could take. She wasn’t sure how long she could keep watching him deny himself every joy and relief life offered him; how long she could keep watching him make an enemy of himself. She knew she could no longer reach Sothis, but every part of her begged that they might be able to help him heal, hoped that this attempt wouldn’t end in disaster. 

Sensing her presence, he turned without a word as she closed in with final steps.

“All set, thanks for letting me borrow it for a bit. What do you think?” She held it out.

He gazed at her silently for a moment, unfazed, and took it from her outstretched grasp. They’d come a long way, given he didn’t snatch it from her as he once might have. Unraveling it without flourish, he gave it a shake before latching it back onto his shoulders. He showed no discernible reaction until then--mouth a flat, forbidding line--but the only eye he had left widened. 

“Good?”

He gave the slightest nod before turning back to the rubble of the monastery.

* * *

  
  
Violets. They were the first thing he registered when he draped the newly washed cape over his shoulders, the floral scent making an ache start deep in his chest. Memories of stumbling upon the professor and Dedue in the greenhouse, an amiable quiet pervading the earthy ambience. He’d often lean against the entrance and watch them exchange a smile when sharing watering cans or seeds, or simply trading weeding/harvesting bags and the like. He couldn’t remember a time his friend had been so at peace--so comfortable in this foreign land. 

Petrichor. Faerghus was much more prone to snow than rain, so he’d never thought much of it until he arrived at the monastery. One morning he had approached the professor’s room for their usual briefing, sorting out his schedule for the day in his head as he walked. Fog had begun to obscure the better part of campus in the aftermath of the rain, and the scent that seemed to permeate was stronger than any he’d experienced back home. It wasn’t unpleasant, blanketing his senses along with the mist--like a hand guiding his steps. Is this what people meant when they said they could feel the presence of the goddess in all things? Well, even if he was in doubt--he couldn’t deny the loveliness of the atmosphere.

He was a few feet from the dorms when he noticed a figure enshrouded in the translucent haze, utterly still. It was the professor, he realized, when her outline became clearer. A few steps closer offered a glimpse of her softened features, unlike anything he’d ever seen, smiling with her eyes closed--head tipped up to the sky.

She was...beautiful. Utterly breathtaking as she indulged in the splendor.

It felt wrong to intrude on such a private moment, no matter how accidental, and he considered leaving to return later when her voice called out. Just loud enough to be heard, swift and sure as she always was--nigh uncanny.

“Good morning, Dimitri. What brings you here today?”

When he looked back up, her smile was directed at him now, no trace of irritation--nothing shuttered from his view. Her eyes were the color of the sky on a crisp winter morning, clear and bright--ones that always reminded him of happier days. The ones that were spent with Sylvain and Felix and Ingrid chucking snowballs--and trying to hide from Gilbert’s backbreaking training. There was an unconditional welcome in that look that made the pounding of his heart all too loud in his ears, that made his hands slick as he fidgeted, kneading his thumb against his palm.

“Er, I’m sorry to disturb you so early professor, I can come back another time if you’d prefer.”

“Nonsense, what’s the matter?”

He loved her voice, the pitch and flow of her words--the calm that dwelled in her tone, like a still, still lake. He couldn’t remember a time drowning seemed so appealing, every part of her like a siren song--he was unable to focus on anything else when they were alone. It wasn’t like the troubled silence his stepmother had exuded, or the pensive one--his mind far away--that had consumed his father. This was something else entirely.

And he couldn’t imagine his life without it anymore.

“Well, given next week’s battle, I was thinking--”

Vanilla. Chamomile tea steaming from a freshly poured cup, the dainty ceramic an acute reminder to keep his strength under control. Sweets were laid out with a deliberate hand, evenly distributed and varied in flavor. His favorite had always been the vanilla cookies (sometimes cakes, if there were no cookies) that paired well with the tart twinge of the tea. She would most often chat with him with her hands folded under her chin, elbows resting on the edge of the table. While he’d been lectured for years as a young boy against such misconduct, it came so naturally to her that he was led to wonder what was so gauche about it. She was always a little more animated in private, her lips curving up into a small smile more--amusement trickling into her voice, teasing him now and again. They talked about anything and everything; class, training, political affairs, house concerns. 

The most recent one he could remember was in those final weeks before the war, her expression lined with fatigue and concern.

“Are you all right, Dimitri?”

“I could ask the same of you, professor,” He curled his hand into a fist atop his knee to resist the urge to reach for her hand, her features pinched with stress. She’d been more and more distracted of late, as if she simply had too much on her plate. No matter how many times they asked to ease her burden, she merely ruffled their hair, asking them to leave it to the adults. “You seem a bit overwhelmed.”

She smiled, but it was wobbly. “Maybe I am,” she admitted, weary eyes cast down before she set her jaw. “But I won’t let anything happen to you. To _ any _of you.”

He was humbled by the ferocity in her expression, “We won’t let anything happen to you either, professor. Please, let our strength be yours too.”

“Dimitri,” she gazed at him, eyes severe as she held him in her thrall. “You need to promise me that if things get out of hand, you will all make it to safety.”

“But--professor--you can’t ask me to--”

“I can and I will. You have an entire Kingdom waiting for you. You all do. I won’t be the reason you give that up, understood?”

He was silent, but she could likely see the protest in his wounded eyes, the way he couldn’t help but rub a hand along his arm. “I promise to find you in the event that we have to split up. But I need you to promise me that you’ll wait until it’s safe.”

There was no order in his entire life that he regretted following more than that one. If he had stayed, if he had searched--ripped at the rubble until his hands ran red with blood--would she have been lost to them for so long?

The question had haunted him for five years--but never because her specter loomed. It was a regret born of his own feelings; he had followed her wishes exactly as she’d wanted. He knew she would never be upset with him for that, not when she always took to the frontlines and asked after their wounds. He could still remember all the times he’d found her chatting beside the other students; the way Felix relaxed around her, the way Annette giggled beside her, the way even Sylvain deigned to look serious. She always brought out nothing but the best in them.

Was it any wonder it had come to this?

Night had long since fallen in the monastery, lost in his thoughts as he was, and her perfume--heavy with nostalgia, lingered irrevocably. His hands curled around the fur just underneath his jaw, stroking absentmindedly as he had a brief moment of clarity. 

He stared at his hands, newly emitting the scent of the soap, for the first time seeing her instead of the blood he knew lingered there. The images flickered and overlapped, but in the end all he could see was her hand outstretched--the same way she had that first day she returned. Could...could he turn back now, after everything? Could he answer that voice--always filled with hope--despite how much easier it would be to give up on him? Would he ever be able to silence the voices?

Limned in the moonlight spilling from broken windows, for the first time in five years he fell asleep, and dreamed happy dreams--dreams of the past, dreams of lying by her side in the grass and laughing while she tried to name each passing cloud; each comparison more absurd than the first. Dreams where he still remembered how to make her smile, dreams where the world wasn’t falling apart at the seams and everything he touched didn’t shatter at his feet.

Dreams where he could meet her outstretched hand and never be afraid of failing her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Byleth loves Dimitri aggressively (as we all wish to) and Dimitri is simultaneously doubt.png and the colbert meme of Bryan Cranston asking “Me?” totally baffled, and Byleth is Colbert
> 
> Wrote this while listening to Graveyard by Halsey………….I can’t stop and it keeps making me think of Dimileth, send help 
> 
> I should be doing work but last night my brain decided that I have no sense or God so here I am
> 
> Please enjoy! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place shortly after chapter 17 where big sad happens in the rain (since I already wrote an interpretation of that, feel free to read it if you want more Dimileth feels! It's titled "And Rain Will Make the Flowers Grow")

“You deserve to be here,” the words were quiet--firm in the way only the best hugs could be. “You are enough.”

Doubt surfaced inevitably in response to the claim, the only real cause to think otherwise the hand tight around his own. She stood beside him, never letting go even as night fell for the second time--so many hours since their arrival back to the monastery. She had dragged him to the sauna, where Dedue had only too happily offered a change of clothes. She'd waited patiently after taking her bath with the other women before taking his hand again, following where he went.

It would have been endearingly funny, if it didn't worry him so deeply; where he had once been her shadow, she'd begun to follow him. There was the matter of his being unworthy of such company, but she also hadn't slept a wink in all that time--eyes owlish and wide awake. 

“Professor, you should get some r--”

The words died in his throat when she looked to him, expression neutral. Similar, in a way, to their first meeting. But he knew this look--the way her eyes hardened like the pale tips of the highest mountains in Faerghus. She would not budge. He let out a shuddering laugh, feeling tears prickle behind his eye.

“I don’t suppose you’re doing this because you’re afraid I might...”

He didn’t need to say it. They both knew. But he had no intention of hurtling on a suicide mission to Enbarr. Not anymore--even if the voices in his head hissed discordantly. _ Coward! _

She shook her head firmly, tugging him down to sit where the rubble was decidedly less rugged. He could feel the soft weight of her shoulder against his, an offering. His eye was wide, confused.

“Try to get some rest.”

“But professor, I--”

“Sleep."

He would have flinched if her voice wasn't so soft in its imperative, no accusation--merely decisive. Warmth bloomed in his hand where she held it, the strong flutter of her pulse soothing. It reminded him of the days he spent watching the pegasus knights when he was little, the beat of their wings so strong he would laugh with wonder--hair tousled.

He wasn't quite sure he still _ had _ the capacity to sleep; he couldn't remember the last time he'd closed his eyes of his own volition. Or anything shorter than brief lapses in consciousness. A distinct ache began behind his eyes at the prospect, like the shuddering of a great towering statue rending--toppling at its base. 

And then, she began to sing.

Well, technically she was humming, but in the cavernous space it echoed so sweetly--she might as well have been singing. And days long past came to him in stunning relief, the monastery painted in the light of an airy afternoon--stained glass impeccable, polished, stunning. 

She had newly been announced their presiding professor, and as such she'd been tasked with engaging in choir practice as the houses always had. Given nobody knew her musical aptitude--just another doubt to add to the multitude, her mysteriousness boundless--the choir director had asked her to take center stage. Worried, he watched her take the lead with zero change in expression--eyes the same, utterly unaffected. She spoke so little, mostly replying in nods and mumbles, he fidgeted with the clasp of his cape with every step she took. Was the director sure about this? And then her mouth opened--along with a silent intake of breath--and it was too late.

To say that shock had rippled across the gathering would have been an understatement. 

It was as though the very goddess herself had imbued a gift; clear and bright as her voice filled the room easily. A greater hush than he could ever remember found the cathedral--even the young children falling silent, spellbound. He couldn't think of a single experience like it--as though time itself had been held in her thrall, waiting with bated breath for the next note. Sylvain had been the one to nudge him after a moment, frozen in place and thawing with a startled blink at the light elbow to his side. He could see in front of him Annette and Mercedes tugging on each other’s sleeves, wonder blooming across their faces. 

After that, he never dreaded choir practice again, nodding his acceptance whenever she selected him to join. He had never been much of a singer (or particularly devout) to be sure; he only knew the basics provided by his upbringing. She always insisted he speak up, that he sing louder--but he much preferred her voice over his own, and he was sure the audience agreed too. 

Now and again he would be walking to the training grounds or to the library, and he would hear the faintest thread of her humming. And despite his best intentions to stay his course, he would find himself a few feet away from wherever she was instead--be it the pier or the greenhouse. And without fail she would spot him and wave a hand, lips quirked up a bit. He would bow and offer a proper greeting, hoping it would hide the embarrassment--and disappointment. Disappointment in himself for getting distracted, for letting himself grow much too fond. And disappointment because she would stop humming altogether, asking him if he was doing well.

Now, as he had once only dreamed, she sang beside him, only for him. The gentle thrum of the sound coursed through him in the close proximity, as sure as the heartbeat she lacked. He knew he didn’t deserve this kind of attention, this kind of gentle care--but his head was too heavy to keep up, sinking into the fragrant curve of her shoulder. He could smell the same scent--violets, vanilla, petrichor--that had effused from his cloak mere days ago clinging to her hair, a dazed shock making his fingers twitch. 

Divine Vessel, Fell King. She was immaculate, unblemished, perfect…and he, well, was anything _ but _ that.

Then why--he managed to wonder, already adrift--did it feel like they were just the same despite it all? 

* * *

He woke with reluctance, a dull throbbing behind his eyes--an acute ache that made him roll over--hoping to reclaim sleep. A low, disgruntled sound rumbled in his throat. He wanted to be back in that lovely quiet; dreams of leading the professor to the lake he often visited when he was young--training there, riding his favorite horse around the perimeter, sliding and stumbling across the frosted surface in the coldest months (usually to reclaim something Felix had dropped). 

In his dreams hope seemed all too real, a visage of himself much less grisly--and her laughter abundant. The way she would smile when he revealed that her eyes had reminded him of everything he once held precious, like guiding moons on his darkest days. One glance at her--he would finally, _ finally _ get to explain--and he would remember everything he wanted to protect, everything he wanted to show her one day; all the ways he wanted to eventually repay her. It had been silly, sure, _ boyish _ even--but in the days before the war, it had been enough. 

Anything Faerghus would accomplish would be hers, too.

And in his dreams she was radiant--he was satisfied that his imagination could capture her well enough--the only thing that made it difficult to discern the dream from reality. But he knew it was a dream because she listened to him intently, something beyond attentiveness lingering in her gaze. He couldn’t understand quite what it was, until they paused at the lake’s edge, peering at their dual reflection. And she smiled, did she enjoy the sight of them together as much as he did? His answer would come in her bold step forward, smile wide as she stretched--tugging his shoulders down. Confused but happy to comply, he leaned down, expecting her to murmur something or other. His eye flew open--startled--when plush lips found his instead, softer than anything he’d ever known. Light as snowfall, he followed suit, one hand curling behind her head before reality struck him with all the force of an anvil. The professor would never--?

His eye flew open to the familiar sight of dozens of pews, dark wood blurring together as he blinked rapidly--desperate for clarity. What in the Goddess’ name had he just--? He didn’t have enough time to figure that out either, a light hand carding through his hair, careful not to move his eyepatch. Where--? He about had another heart attack when he noticed the sheer fabric of her tights just below him, cheek warm against the smoothness of her thigh. He sat up abruptly, eyes glued to the ground as he struggled to reclaim some sort of propriety. 

He was doing a very poor job of trying to reclaim his royal status, rubbing his face all over her thighs. Mortification made his ears burn, hoping the Goddess herself would just strike him down. He was almost impressed by how well and how thoroughly he managed to ruin any unanimously good thing in his life.

“Ah--I--my apologies professor, I d-didn’t mean to--”

“Don’t worry about it; you tilted a bit when you fell asleep, so I just shifted to make it easier on you. It was no trouble.”

“But--”

“No apologies, Dimitri, no harm done so there’s no need. Besides, we should probably get something to eat. I’ll go grab something from the mess hall.”

Another protest came to his lips, but he swallowed it down. He had a feeling she would steamroll any further attempts at refusal, and he felt himself relax to see her rise and stretch--lips quirked up slightly. Ah, she was happier when he accepted the help rather than refusing it out of courtesy. He would simply have to try to find another way to return the consideration; it was clear this wasn’t the way. 

“Though I should probably grab _ that _ first--it is chilly this morning.” 

He looked to his lap, trying to understand what she meant--until he noticed her coat over his legs. He resisted the urge to cover his face with his hands.

Was she trying to kill him? Because this was more effective than any blade that could rend flesh. She knew his ability to withstand a simple chill, and even so, she worried. The deepest--most petulant part of him--wanted to snuggle even further into the obsidian fabric. And maybe she would stay for that much longer. Instead, he forced himself to retrieve it, handing it over with a sheepish half-smile. 

“Thank you, professor. As ever, I am in your debt.”

She waved him off. “Be right back.”

He watched her walk right out of the cathedral with nary a stumble, despite how likely it was that he’d made her leg fall asleep after that long. He could tell it was late morning, judging by the intensity of the sun outside. 

He was torn between wondering if she considered him a man at all or if she was just so concerned she didn’t care what it took to restore his health. Well, considering his behavior the last four months, if her answer to the first was negative he couldn’t really contest that. Even if the professor didn’t want apologies, he had many people he still needed to apologize to. He knew words meant little, but it was a place to start. At least until he could prove--by his own mettle--that he was serious about reuniting Faerghus.

He was so lost in thought, thinking through all the necessary courses of action, that he almost didn’t hear her approach.

“Dimitri?” Soft again, she waited patiently.

“Ah, thank you, professor.”

She nodded, and for a time they ate in silence; though it was a contented, comfortable one. It felt a little strange, here in the mangled ruins of where they’d spent most of their days together, to feel so at home. But the feeling wasn’t unwelcome.

When they’d had their fill, he decided to broach a question that had been weighing on him for the better part of the last few weeks.

“Professor?” 

Curious, she turned to him, head tilted slightly. They’d learned--as a class--that that was their cue to continue.

“Why...I mean...well...” he fumbled, trying to find the right words--the last thing he wanted was to sound ungrateful. “Aren’t you--aren’t you angry with me?”

“Angry?” Her head only tilted further. “Why?”

He balked, his next exhale sharp with surprise. “After everything I’ve done, after--?”

She held up a hand, signaling she understood. 

She set the tray aside, and looked straight at him--nothing but still, still clarity. He waited, knowing whatever she had to say--well, everything she had to say was important--but that she wanted him to remember this in particular. His fidgeting hands stilled, eye wide.

She smiled for a moment, nostalgic. As if to ask, _ do you remember? _Whenever he was confused about leadership tactics, she would engage in exercises just like this--trying to help him find the answer on his own with a nudge forward. “Dimitri, what is there to be gained by being angry with you?”

He paused, considering the question. But the answer seemed obvious--the only one that came to him no matter how hard he tried. “...I suppose there’s nothing to be gained beyond a sense of satisfaction? An injured party seeking their due, in a sense. It’s about justice, fairness.”

Her smile grew wider, and that’s how he knew he was wrong--though he couldn’t yet see why. “That’s one way to look at it,” She was the first person who ever made him rejoice even in his ineptitudes, lost in the warm look she directed at him. “And you’re right. Maybe that would satisfy some.” She shrugged, conceding it easily--though he knew by the little furrow in her brow that she didn’t quite agree with that perspective. “But I’m not among them; not here, not now. Dimitri, I don’t want to hear you apologize for what you felt you had to do to survive--that’s every bit on me as it is on you.”

His hand inched forward to find hers, to comfort--before he drew it back and squeezed it into a fist. Not the time. He’d breached her space enough for one day. “But professor, I know you didn’t mean to abandon us. Anybody can see that you mean it, see the confusion when we talk about things that happened in your absence.”

She shook her head, frowning. “I should have been more careful. And even if it was unintentional, that doesn’t erase the reality of the consequences.” She sighed. “This is the last thing I ever wanted to happen. And I’m just relieved--so, so relieved you found your way back to us.”

He was stunned--wasn’t quite sure what to say. But Felix’s caustic remarks were beginning to resurface, hazy in his memory,_ “Shut up, boar; you’re not the only one who’s lost something to this war. Spare me your deranged barking.” _Was the professor feeling...guilty all this time? Dread settled in the pit of his stomach, appetite thoroughly lost. 

“Don’t.” He murmured. “Don’t feel guilty. Professor please--there’s nothing to forgive here, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

She grinned, waiting for him to realize.

And it hit him like a ton of bricks. This is how she felt--every time he apologized, every time he waited for anger or a reprimand--she felt this same hurt, this swirling dread. The logic he had used all this time was circuitous, in the most dangerous way: it was a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more he felt he deserved hatred and disgust, the more he would do things to warrant it--or estrange the people that wanted to help him. And dwelling on what was already done--on things that couldn’t be changed--resulted in nothing. It didn’t make him feel any better, or help anyone else. He took a deep breath, and was surprised at how easily he could summon a tiny smile; at how much lighter he felt. Perhaps it was just another kind of magic unique to her, not that he needed more reason to be utterly spellbound.

“Point taken,” he chuckled wryly, “I should have known better than to try to debate anything with you.”

“Nonsense, you’re going to be a king someday--we’ll get you up to speed in no time.” She tapped the tip of his nose.

He blinked. “I doubt I’d ever be able to outsmart you, no matter how many years passed.”

“Give it time.”

She collected their trays, “I’m going to head to the library to take a look at something before we convene the war council. You’re more than welcome to join us, though only if you’re feeling up to it.” He noticed her gaze shift to his back, and for a second he mulled over reassuring her--but he doubted she would accept it if he said the pain was minimal. He doubted _ anyone _ would really, but Mercedes really was a miracle worker if nothing else. “Rest as much as you need to, and don’t hesitate to find me if you need anything.” She started marching out of the cathedral, as determined as ever, and he scrambled before he lost his chance.

“Wait--professor!” she turned, pivoting on her heel with a brow raised. “Er, thank you. I’ll see you later today.”

Her answering smile was one he hadn’t seen in six years--the same one that had left him mesmerized. He wasn’t sure how he once believed she was expressionless; all you needed to know was where to look. And he was lucky that--for all his bumbling--he seemed to know just what to say to earn the privilege of seeing it. She nodded, and continued on. 

He sank to the floor, feeling a little dizzy as he tried to make sense of everything that just happened. It had been so long since he’d held a conversation, much less shared in the warmth of another person. His face burned at the memory of how he’d awoken, and he hid his face behind one of his arms. Though he had to concede, he never imagined sleeping on someone’s legs could be quite so comfortable. He was disgusted with himself for the thought that followed, the wish to sleep there forever--who needed a proper bed? He shook his head roughly, scowling; an ounce of kindness and he was becoming worse than Sylvain.

But as he stared at his hands, something she said repeated in his head--so casual, so natural that he had to wonder if she’d said it without thinking. _ “Nonsense, you’re going to be a king someday--we’ll get you up to speed in no time.” _

Did...did that mean...she intended to join them all in Faerghus if they managed to win this war?

Motivation the likes of which he couldn’t remember feeling in years flooded through him, made his blood run red hot. His people needed him, and the professor couldn’t carry this desperate effort afloat forever. While he never doubted her abilities, it was clear what he needed to do. Well perhaps more accurately, what he needed to create. 

_ “A world in which nothing would ever be unjustly taken from us.” _

There was no more time for regret. No more time to lament what could never be reclaimed. From now on, he would forge a new path--all his own. The time he spent here as a young man wasn’t lost--quite the contrary, the professor had helped him find exactly who he wanted to be. He’d simply been too blind--the thought made him laugh dryly--to see it at the time.

He knew it was lofty, he knew it was nigh impossible to guarantee--but that wouldn’t be enough to stop him anymore. The steps that echoed across the monastery were not the heavy trod of a corpse, or the stiff steps of a polished prince. Firm and sure, steady and tempered--forged in dragon fire--the king of Faerghus stepped into the sun.


End file.
